2p Kitchen Time!
by SweetMars03
Summary: Ever wondered what would happen if Oliver tried to teach Allen how to make a cake? Or if Lutz tried to cook a romantic meal for Luciano? Ever thought about the kind of kitchen skills any of the 2p's have? Well wonder no more, here's a collection of one shots that revolves entirely around the 2p's time in their kitchens.
1. Oliver and Allen Make a Cake

2p Kitchen Time!

Oliver and Allen Make a Cake

Allen stared, dumbfounded, as he watched his lover almost literally fly around the room, taking and putting and moving things so swiftly they almost seemed to float in midair with him. "Slow the fuck down." Was the only thing he was able to say as he saw things assemble and dissemble in front of him as if from thin air. Oliver stopped immediately in all of his movements. He clutched a whisk and a spoon in one hand and several small glass jars containing a variety of ingredients in the other. His body was tensed in an awkward position, both arms pointing in different directions and his feet ready to take him back to the cabinet. He glared intensely at Allen, refusing to move. Allen gave a deep sigh as he thrust his hand into his pocket and began to fish around for a couple of quarters before he shoved them harshly into a glass jar labeled 'Swear Jar'. A jar that Oliver insisted on keeping around him at all times setting down whenever he came into a room. Oliver huffed, satisfied, before continuing, throwing all the ingredients in the bowl that already held the beginnings of cake batter. He turned to look at Allen in the eyes while his hands continued on their own, measuring perfectly calculated amounts without even having to look at what he was doing. "Because your statement contained profanity I should not recognize it, but I will anyways because that's how much I love you. I will not slow the 'bleep' down. I am already going much too slow just so you can understand the recipe, now listen you will need cocoa powder, some flour, sugar obviously, baking powder, baking soda, salt, eggs, vegetable oil and sour cream plus vanilla extract. You put the dry ones first, mix them and then stir the liquids in, preferebaly in the order I told you." All in a single breath while suddenly grabbing the whisk and mixing the contents so quickly that his hand was a blur to Allen's eyes. "Okay, now you can start making your own cake batter over there I already set out the ingredients for y- NOT THAT MUCH SUGAR!" Oliver yelled. He reached over and snatched Allen's arm which had roughly grabbed the sugar and nearly poured the entire jar. Oliver had not even been looking that way before determining that Allen was messing up his cake recipe. With his hand still whisking away stretched the farthest Oliver could, he used his other hand to measure out the ingredients for Allen. After everything had been set perfectly for him, Allen was given a whisk as Oliver returned to his own batter that looked even and smooth. Allen began stirring the contents with an unsure hand as he peeked out of the corner of his eye at Oliver who still continued at a lighting fast pace. "Now after the batter is properly mixed- a little faster, dear- we're going to set them in the oven at a temperature of 350 degrees Farenheit for exactly thirty two minutes with forty seven seconds. I will leave it up to you to take the cake out at precisely that moment because I have to clean the house, alright?" Allen breathed out uncertainly, thinking of the inevitable disaster to come. For as wonderful and majestic as Oliver was in the kitchen, he was every part as clumsy and awkward outside of it. "You sure you don't wanna finish up the cakes and let me handle the cleaning?" He asked, awkwardly holding the whisk as he tried to copy the same fluid movements that Oliver had used to steer his own batter. "Why would I do that, dear?" Oliver asked, completely oblivious to Allen's attempt at insinuating that their house might catch fire and it wouldn't be because of the cakes. Allen winced as he continued in his most gentle tone, which he barely ever used. "Well, you know, sometimes you can get a bit clumsy and disastrous- just a bit, don't get angry!" Allen quickly said, recognizing the murderous look in his lover's eyes. Oliver huffed. "No, I actually would not like for you to clean. The whole point of bringing you into the kitchen was so that you could learn how to cook something. I can clean my own house, thank you very much, dear, I'm sure the vacuum will cooperate this time." Allen sighed, knowing there was no way to rescue his house now that his lover had set his mind to the task of cleaning. "What time am I taking them out again?" He asked, already forgetting the instructions. "Thirty-two minutes and forty-seven seconds." And with that Olive set his batter down, snatched the whisk out of Allen's hand and finished mixing the contents for Allen. He took a bowl in each hand and poured them both into molds at the same time. He looked at the both critically before scrapping off a bit more batter with a spoon and dolloping it on top of both. Satisfied he placed them in the oven, set the temperature and the time. "Now, this is very important. Thirty-two minutes and forty-seven seconds. The timer on the oven doesn't allow for single digit minutes, much less seconds, so when it dings it's still missing exactly two minutes and forty-seven seconds. Are you listening?" He crossed his arms and pouted when he saw Allen give him a blank look. "What's three minutes going to change?" He asked, itching to hit something with his bat, to let out some of the growing frustration. Oliver looked indignant. "Two minutes and forty-seven seconds, firstly, and, secondly, it makes all the difference between the perfect cake and a half-baked one." Oliver giggled at his lame joke while Allen tried to contain his groan. "Alright then, I'll be off. Remember Allen, two minutes and forty-seven seconds after the bell dings. I'll go clean now." Allen sighed, wondering why he out up with Oliver. Oh right, he was a fucking slut in bed. He took a deep calming breath, not feeling like getting a thirty-two minute and forty-seven second lecture from Oliver on his failure as a partner and lover and support. Nor the one twice as long whenever he broke something in the house using his favorite relaxation method, smashing the shit out of things. He wondered why he couldn't leave the kitchen while he waited but something about the way Oliver gave the instructions made it clear he was not to leave the kitchen until the cakes were done. He spent the entire thirty minutes doing breathing exercises, as he was not known for his patience, and wincing every time he heard a crash or similar noise of destruction from the inside of his house. It did not help that the kitchen kept getting warmer and warmer, to the point where Allen wondered if he had finally made his way to hell. He had repeatedly counted to ten enough times to forget which number you were supposed to start on and his hands literally itched for his bat. His eyes twitched slightly and his hand spasmed. He had to leave. He had to leave right now. Allen walked to the door, with only a few seconds left ticking on the inner bomb waiting to explode. As soon as he closed the door behind him he let out a caveman yell that could've made a grown T-rex cry for mama. He grabbed the first thing he could reach, one of Oliver's stupid fucking pink lawn chairs, and snapped it in half. He took one of the halves and brought it down on the table with all his might, effectively breaking both. He took a deep breath, the desperation of only moments before gone. He almost smiled to himself as he flexed his fingers. Before he could though, an unearthly screech pierced the air, with the capacity of being heard over at Matt's place. Allen's eyes went wide and his face pale. Only one thing on earth could make a sound like that. "Allen L. Jones, YOU ARE EFFING DEAD!" Allen went stiff for only just a second before he took off like lightning, feet pounding to take him as far away from Oliver as possible. With the smell of burnt cake on his nose and his psychotic lover's shrieks in his ears Allen fled for his life.


	2. Lutz Makes Luciano Pasta

2p Kitchen Time!

Lutz Makes Luciano Pasta

Lutz stood, in the middle of his kitchen, fumbling uncertainly. Luciano had left the house to go do 'business' with his 'colleagues'. What that really meant was that he was paying a visit to his Mafia friends to find out why they had fucked up and to hand out the consequences. Normally, Lutz would stress himself senseless for three minutes before getting tired of stressing and deciding to take a nap instead. A nap that would turn into a restless and uneasy sleep, ending when Luciano came back and Lutz woke to the familiar and now almost comforting sound of Luciano's heavy weapon bag hitting the floor and his combat boots clomping up the stairs. If it happened that Luciano was in a good mood he would've brought back some take out from the first place he found on his way back home. He would kick Lutz out of bed who would drag himself down to the kitchen where they would eat silently at their little table. If Luciano was in a really, really good mood, after eating he would allow Lutz to help him clean up the blood and whatever wounds he might've gotten and they would go to bed. But if Luciano returned pissed about the outcome of his little excursion, Lutz would go back to bed, hungry but glad his love was safe and back home. But today something weird happened. When Luciano left, throwing his weapon bag over his shoulder and slamming the door behind him, instead of chewing his nails and walking around in circles for the next couple of minutes, Lutz went to his kitchen. They barely used it, except for putting together cereal on weekend mornings, eating take out at 12 am and the occasional microwaved frozen pizza, if they were home for lunch. Lutz and Luciano didn't find joy in eating like some other people. It was just something you had to do, like breathing. People don't go around being picky about what air they breathe, most of the time they're not particularly conscious about doing it. That's the way eating was for Lutz and Luciano, and the reason why neither had ever attempted to cook anything in their lives. But today something compelled Lutz to enter his kitchen, with all the purpose of cooking something for Luciano. He didn't know why, maybe he wanted to thank Luciano for putting up with him and helping him even though he could be doing so many other things with his life than babysitting him, but for whatever reason, Lutz had made up his mind about making Luciano some food. The problem was he could barely heat things up in the microwave, several times already he had nearly exploded their kitchen with Luciano coming in at the last second to yell at him about what can and can't go in the microwave. But he was determined. He wondered what Luciano would like to have, since they never talked about food and he assumed that, like himself, Luciano didn't really have a preference. In the end, he decided to make pasta. It was a famous Italian dish and Luciano was Italian. Plus, even Lutz understood that pasta was one of the simplest things you could cook and that screwing up was virtually impossible. But those same conditions applied to microwavable things and he managed to screw that up enough times for Luciano to forbid him from using it without supervision. With a deep breath to steady himself Lutz took out a pot and filled it with water to the very top. He set it on the stove and then looked in their pantry for pasta. He found it and turned, finding that the water had boiled and the mound of bubbles was on the verge of spilling over the side. He wondered, briefly, if it was supposed to do that, until it did spill over in a massive splash that sizzled loudly when it hit the hot stove. He rushed over and turned it off, his hand getting burned by the water that splashed as it hit the stove's surface. Hissing he drew his hand back as the water slowly stopped boiling and the bubbles disappeared. An angry red patch marked where he had been burned on the back of his hand, close to his thumb. He put the wound to his mouth, sucking it to make the pain go away. The water had mostly cooled down and after his hand no longer pulsed with pain he put the pasta into the water, carefully, so the water would not splash back and burn him again. The spaghetti sank down to the bottom of the pot and, after a moment's hesitation, Lutz turned the stove back on. Nothing happened immediately so he turned his back to it, now wondering what he would do for meat. Looking around, he found some canned sausages and instantly knew that was as good as he was going to get. He frowned as he realized he would need some kind of sauce to go with the pasta. He searched his kitchen top to bottom but found nothing of use. While he did that, the water behind him boiled again and spilled everywhere, but he was too focused on his task to notice anything. While the pasta ruined behind him, becoming a mushy mess, he finally came across an old can of tomato sauce and figured that would work. He turned, expecting to find the pasta neatly made in the pot, instead he found that there was a growing puddle of burning hot water on the floor, more spilling on the stove, and that the pasta looked like an alien monster that had been possessed by a demon. He panicked, spilling most of the sauce on himself when he saw that the knob to turn off the stove had water flowing down its sides, removing the option of turning it off for himself. He tore open the drawers, a clear picture in his mind of what he wanted to find and thank God he did. Using some barbecue tongs at the bottom of the drawer he tried to turn the knob, standing two feet away and cowering from the water. It was in this moment, with boiling water all over the floor, a demon possessed alien on the stove, Lutz covered in sauce and in one of the most embarrassing positions he had seen to date, that Luciano entered his kitchen. He himself didn't look like a picture of perfection, his uniform torn around his chest, legs, and arms, splattered in blood head to toe with his favorite knife bent at the handle in his hand. He stood still in his doorway for a second. Today had not been a good day. After all he'd been through, what he had wanted was to return home to a quiet and still household, let the weight of his weapon bag fall and get into a warm bed to sleep well into the next morning. Instead he got this mess. Realizing that Luciano had come back, Lutz froze. It was never explicitly said but it was a little-known fact that Lutz never did anything of his own accord. He was a blundering fool, and it was precisely for that reason Luciano and Kuro were always supervising his actions. Over the years, Luciano had come to have the job of watching over Lutz fulltime and making sure he didn't get too hurt. Lutz wondered what Luciano would say to this since he had never been told not to cook, but he hadn't been given the instruction to do so. His question was answered as Luciano let his weapon bag fall next to his feet and looked blankly around at the room, which was much more dangerous than him taking off into a temper tantrum. "What the fuck is this?" He asked, his tone dead, setting off all the alarms in Lutz's brain. He tried for a small smile, which was quickly frowned upon by Luciano. "Dinner?" He said as if it was a question. Luciano shook his head slowly, and still that calm before the storm scared Lutz shitless. "This isn't dinner. This is the death of one of us, and I ain't in the mood to let it be mine." Lutz reacted out of instinct, ducking down quickly and covering his head with his arms like a child. It had been long since the last time, but he could never forget the way Luciano would beat him for screwing up during the war. Apparently, though, that was the right thing to do because seeing that, even after all these years and all that Luciano had tried to do to fix it, in his own way, Lutz was still afraid that he would physically harm him made the anger in Luciano dissipate slowly and be replaced with a dull ache at the thought, an ache that made him feel very tired and old. He sighed and deflated, only now realizing he had risen to his full height, ready to blow. Lutz realized that something had changed and peaked from in between his arms to see that Luciano had walked over to the stove and turned off the knob, the water had already cooled down enough to be able to touch it. With an exhausted air around him, Luciano reached over his head and took two plates from his cabinet. He served and equal amount of pasta mush onto both of them and placed them onto their little table. Then, with a huff of air, he threw himself down onto one of the chairs. Finally finding the courage to remove his arms from where they were covering his face, Lutz stood straight and watched as Luciano waited at their table. After a pause, Luciano made a motion for Lutz to go get the utensils, without his usual harshness. Lutz did so, finding two forks and on the way bringing the canned sausage and the tomato sauce. He set them down in the middle of the table and then took a seat in front of Luciano. Quickly, and out of habit, Luciano said grace, thanking God for the food they had been given, and then looked down at said food for a moment before reaching for the sauce and pouring what was left onto it in a huge glop over the mush. Nervously, Lutz opened the can of sausages, took half and then offered the rest to Luciano who put them on the side of his plate. Luciano was the first to eat, stabbing at the mush and finding that it was not even possible to pull apart the strands of spaghetti anymore. Putting his fork through the sausage he brought the food to his mouth and ate it. Lutz followed after him, and as always, they ate in silence. Until, halfway through his pile of what once might've been spaghetti, Luciano spoke. "This is absolutely goddamn disgusting. And for future reference, I fucking hate pasta." Lutz stayed still for a moment, wondering if now the shitfest would come but Luciano kept eating his food without another complaint. When they were done, moving almost in unison, as if they had mentally coordinated the event, Lutz put the dishes to wash and Luciano mopped up the water and sauce on the kitchen floor and wiped it off the counters. He would deal with the stove tomorrow. The couple went upstairs and, in silent agreement, passed the bedroom and instead went to the bathroom where Luciano waited on the toilet seat as Lutz looked for the first aid kit. He washed away what blood he could and fixed up the worst of Luciano's scratches. Finally, they went to their room and got into bed as they were. Luciano did something unusual for him. Instead of turning his back to Lutz and sleeping on his corner of the bed, he laid down facing Lutz's back and wrapped his hands around Lutz's frame, one over his shoulders and another around his waist. Lutz didn't dare to breathe, it had been so long since the last time they had held each other in their sleep, he barely let himself believe. But after a moment he relaxed completely, feeling happier than he had in a long time as he pushed back into Luciano's embrace. After a long time, when Luciano thought that Lutz had already drifted off he moved closer, so that there was barely any space between them, and placed a soft kiss on his neck, just under his ear. "Grazie." He whispered into his ear and then closed his eyes, letting sleep take him. When he was gone, Lutz reveled in the loving and tranquil atmosphere that he longed to have every moment of his life. "Sie willkommen"


	3. Flavio Learns to Appreciate Italian

"Oooh, how about that Chinese place by the mall?"

"No."

"The burger joint at 34th?"

"No."

"Ah, I know, there's a sushi bar in-"

"Not happening."

Flavio made a massive show of pouting and crossing his arms unhappily, though having care not to wrinkle his pristine designer suit. "What do _you_ want to eat then?" He asked, glancing at Santiago as he stared ahead at the road. Santiago rolled his eyes. "You're gonna absolutely murder me." Flavio seemed insulted. He gasped and made a gesture with his hand that seemed to say "Me?", before immediately reaching up and twisting the rear-view mirror so he could fix his scarf, even though it hadn't even been touched when he had moved. Santiago growled. "You're gonna kill us both one of these days." Flavio waved him off and took the opportunity to inspect his roots and note that it would soon be time to dye his hair again. "Would you mind putting the mirror back before I crash the car?" Grumbling Flavio set it back in place. "What was I saying? Oh right, I have one of the widest palettes ever, I eat just about anything served on a plate that someone somewhere calls a delicacy. What could there possibly be that I would refuse to-" "Let's have some Italian." Flavio actually made a gagging sound. "You were right I'm going to murder you." Santiago glanced at the mirror only to find it gone again. "Flavio!" He shouted. "Fine, fine, fine!" Flavio quickly replied as if he had been burned, once again setting the mirror back in place. Santiago sighed. "I'm gonna put fucking electric shockers on the damn thing." Flavio slumped over. "You could just get me a mirror on my visor. And there's no reason to curse." But Santiago was already shaking his head. "I am not spending 50 bucks just so you can look at yourself in the car as well as everywhere else, no thank you." Flavio suddenly seemed to notice that they were pulling up to an Italian restaurant. "You weren't serious, were you?" He said, sounding panicked now. Santiago threw his hands up exasperation, quickly putting them back on the wheel. "Can't a man want to eat some damn pasta, for God's sake!" Flavio was ready to go full on whining mode. "Not my man! You had to pick the only thing in the universe that I won't eat!?" Santiago gave him a dead serious look. "Shut the fuck up before I slap you. You're gonna sit down, you're gonna eat something, and if you complain you're gonna have fun trying to find ways to hide a black eye with your make up. I haven't had Italian for the whole two years we've been together, and I like the damn food." He got out of the car and slammed the door leaving Flavio to make childish sounds of mockery for a couple seconds before getting out of the car, checking himself in the mirror one last time before he did. He gave his best model walk, as he came up to Santiago who had already requested a table. "Couldn't you have at least picked somewhere that had Italian and something else for me?" Santiago gave him a warning look and raised his hand. "What did I say about complaining?" Flavio quickly apologized ducking his head. Their waitress came up to lead them to their table. It wasn't very busy, which was good because Flavio didn't want too many people seeing him throw up. They were given their menus and asked about drinks. Flavio asked for a margarita knowing he'd need alcohol for this. "You are gay as fuck." Santiago muttered unhappily as he sipped on his beer. "What do you want me to do about it? Beer makes me nauseous, vodka alone is reserved for Nikolai's visits and you know I don't drink wine out of the house, it's never the same." The waitress came back with Flavio's drink and a little notebook to take their order. Flavio had trouble even looking at the menu. Santiago ordered carbonara and Flavio asked questions about every single dish. Eventually he managed to settle on ravioli. The waitress promised them their food and then drifted off to another table. Flavio admired his drink and how nice it looked before downing most of it. Santiago's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You're gonna be drunk before the food even gets here." Flavio smiled. "That's what I'm hoping for." Santiago just gave a deep sigh and reminded himself that they were in public and he couldn't hit Flavio for being stupid. Yet. Santiago's prediction was correct. By the time their steaming plates of pasta came around Flavio was slurring through the Italian National Anthem. He stopped when he was the ravioli giving it a disgusted look. "Why did I order ravioli again? I hate this." Santiago had to bite his lip. "Flavio." It was the second warning and Santiago never got past the third. Some sense seemed to come back into Flavio, who silently picked up his fork and poked around at it with an immature pout. Santiago took his own and began eating his carbonara. "This is really good." He muttered to himself, remembering how he used to eat this dish often. It wasn't like he was obsessed with it but it was good food and it had been way too long since his last plate. Flavio still hadn't eaten a bite of his food. He flipped over the raviolis and pushed them around. Santiago tried not to pay any attention. Flavio had another margarita and finally after that he took a miniature bite from a corner of one of the pockets of meat. He struggled to put it down. "What's your deal with Italian anyway? It's your own country's food." Flavio only managed to answer after he was finally sure he wouldn't barf it back up. "It's sucky. They forced me to eat it every day when I was little, Luci too. It's so gross." Santiago growled at him to say it any louder, forgetting that Flavio was drunk and had long since lost his sense of sarcasm. "Pasta is-" Santiago reached over the table and pressed his hand into Flavio's mouth muffling the last part of the sentence. Some waitresses looked over but quickly returned to their work. Flavio looked at Santiago curiously, still with a hand covering his lips. He attempted to say something that was of course completely impossible to understand. Santiago pulled back. "What was that?" Flavio smiled lopsidedly. He was really drunk. "Nothing, baby. Just that you look really hot when you're angry." Santiago wondered briefly why he had allowed Flavio to get past the second margarita. Flavio looked at his meal and bravely tried again. He carefully wiped as much sauce as he could and brought out the meat from the little pockets, separating it from the rest. He ate this, finding it much easier to consume. One of the waitress hurried to their table. "Is there something wrong with the food?" She asked looking at Flavio. He forced a smile at her. Even if he was shit faced there was one thing he would always take with dead seriousness and those were Santiago's threats. "Oh, no, nothing, dear. I'm just not feeling well, stomach's unsettled." She seemed reassured and brought him some water on his request. Santiago was nearly done with his food and there was but a bite left of the meat Flavio had extracted. He drank the water gratefully, as it helped wash down the taste of the sauce better than the margarita. Santiago went to go pay. The girl was about to go when something weird came over Flavio. "Wait a moment." He called to her. She froze as she had been about to take Santiago's plate. Flavio carefully picked up Santiago's fork and pushed the last remaining bite of pasta onto it. He brought it up to his lips, and for some odd reason, ate it. It wasn't too bad. He hummed softly. "Sorry to bother you dear but could you bring me a little plate of this. Just like this big." He made a circle with his hands. She nodded and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. When Santiago came back, expecting to see Flavio ready to go, he found his love quickly shoveling carbonara from a new plate into his mouth. Santiago's eyebrow climbed high on his forehead. "I thought you said you hated the stuff." Flavio suddenly looked up, a small drop of sauce on the edge of his lips. He shrugged. "I don't know maybe I'm drunker than I thought." Flavio polished off two more plates before Santiago dragged him to the car. He placed a generous tip to the waitress for dealing with his insufferable boyfriend. As they got in the car, the generosity he felt still taking effect, Santiago gave Flavio ample time to check himself out in the mirror and fix the most minor details about his appearance, before taking off. "So, did I behave good?" Flavio asked. Santiago shrugged. He had enjoyed being out of the house for once. "Sure. You can sleep with me tonight." Flavio cheered and almost jumped out of his seat to give Santiago a kiss. Santiago growled and pushed him back, swerving to avoid a pedestrian who had been peacefully trying to cross the road. "You're gonna get us killed one of these days." He murmured eyes flicking up to see that the rear-view mirror had once again disappeared. "Flavio!"


	4. Zao and Viktor Have a Drink

Zao stared around the living room with scrunched up brows. He glanced around occasionally as if he expected the walls to supply him with the answer.

 _When the fuck did I start living with Viktor?_

It honestly should have been a fairly simple question with a fairly simple answer, but the more he tried to scrounge around in his memories for an exact date, or even the goddamned year, the more convoluted he realized the answer was, if there even was one.

He could clearly remember a time when he wasn't living with Viktor, he had a flat somewhere much shittier than where he was currently located. He could also clearly remember a time in which he had woken up at Viktor's house, and remembered having woken up there yesterday, and the week before, and the month before. And that was as close as he was to the answer.

The door clicked open and it startled Zao so much he almost toppled off the couch. Few things could catch him off guard, but that was how enrapt he was with this question.

Viktor came in, looking properly pissed at the universe for whatever reason it was today, and he seemed ready to head to his office and work on whatever he had piled up over the weeks, procrastinating to the very end.

Zao now had a new question that would plague his mind.

Why _the hell am I living with Viktor?_

Now this one was even more confusing. What was he still doing here? It wasn't like he didn't have money, he could easily afford a small flat for himself. And on top of that, it seemed completely irrational that he live with Viktor, who he spoke driectly to once a month on a good month.

They avoided each other with practiced precision, somehow communicating telepathically what either had to do around and out of the house without ever sparing a glance for each other. The last time they spoke it was because Viktor came home drunk, and Zao had told him if he was gonna throw up, to do it in his own en suite and not the hall bathroom which was Zao's.

Zao had gotten up to go to his room, and in his thinking stupor, accidentally wandered into Viktor's office. He quickly shook himself out of his thoughts and made to turn on his heels and hastily make his retreat. But before he could, the thick Russian accent he would've recognized anywhere no matter how few times he heard it spoke.

"You're lost in your own house?"

His eyebrow was arched and though his face was impassive, there was unsung amusement that Zao could clearly detect from the amount of time they had lived together.

"It's not my house, or is it?" Zao bit back, defensive.

The Russian gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Touché, my dear friend." The amount of sarcasm dripping form his words was almost a physical thing Zao could reach out and touch.

There was a long silence in which Zao wanted to leave but he did not move. Something about Viktor's posture told him not to.

Viktor's face, though no muscle in it moved, seemed a certain degree more exasperated than usual.

"Do you need a formal invitation from my chair to sit your ass on it?" He asked which made Zao want to snap back again, but he had nothing. So he bit his tongue and pulled up a seat for himself in front of Viktor's desk. Viktor pulled out a flask and passed it to Zao, looking back at his paper in a way that clearly said conversation over. Zao sighed mentally.

He took a sip, unsurprised to find quality vodka meeting his lips.

He put it down on the desk, just within reach of Ivan, who picked it up and drank some himself.

Without looking at each other, speaking a word or acknowledging their existence in any way they, downed the flask. And the spare bottles Viktor had in a locked cabinet. And the extra spare bottles behind the book shelf.

It was no surprise when Zao had literally conked out and Viktor, who wasn't far himself attempted to drag them to bed. He failed of course and they ended up being a pile of limbs on their kitchen floor, both as far from planet earth as you could get.

Zao was not pleased when he heard the knock at the door several hours later, least of all because he felt like his head had split open during his little nap. By the time he realized where he was the person had already given themseves the liberty of barging in.

"Hey Zao I just- woah... Wow, I knew you guys probably swung that way but that was not what I was expecting to see on a Tuesday morning. So, buddy how about a favor?"

That voice. God, Zao hated that voice.

"Fuck off!" He said, and in his still sorta inebriated state, he remembered exactly how it was that he ended up at Viktor's.

The American moved in.

A/N: I truly have to apologize for how horrible this is. I wanted to make an update about these two for a long while but I'm not the best at 2p Russia and don't even get me started on 2pChina. I really wouldn't have posted it because I like to make sure everything that goes up is the best possible content I can make, but I've been stuck for ideas for some time and this was the only thing that came to mind. If you have suggestions PLEASE, I beg of you, help me. I have one more possible thing but it's even worse than this so that might go up sometime in the future. Once more sorry for letting you read this crap.


	5. Gilen Attempts to Make a Pancake

A/N: Sorry this is so late, it was supposed to go up Saturday but I had some complications. I'm going to try to upload weekly, suggestions are still very much welcome to help that along. This was sorta suggested by Olivia Kirkland who reminded me that I wanted to do something with these two. Sorry Matt isn't the focus but I hope you enjoy the little bit of him that you get.

Mat was quite content dating a mute. Most people thought it was odd that he was willing to be in a lasting relationship with someone despite the fact that they refused to speak to him, or anyone for that matter, but he found that it was actually _because_ he refused to speak to him that he enjoyed Gilen's company.

Mat had always hated whiny people who complained, especially when it was about situations that couldn't be changed and he found that the perfect solution to his dilemma was to be with person who would never utter a single word.

And Gilen himself was amazing. He listened those rare times when Matt felt like being heard, and though he didn't speak, he was expressive enough through his face and body language that it wasn't like Matt had no idea what the albino was feeling at any given point.

The arrangement was wonderful.

For Matt.

Gilen was less thrilled at times.

Don't get him wrong, it wasn't that he disliked Matt or anything. He felt a deep connection to him somehow, one that he didn't understand and that he had never had before with anybody else. But at times he wished that Matt could read his mind telepathically to understand certain things that his eyes alone weren't enough to say.

For example, right now would be a good time for Matt to suddenly learn how to interpret his exact thoughts in the form of words.

But Gilen knew that no matter how much he prayed, his incredibly detailed and logical explanation for why the kitchen was a freaking mess covered in raw pancake batter, spilled ingredients, an assortment of splattered toppings, a growing pile of failed pancake attempts and something ominously popping in the sink, would not magically pop into Matt's psyche.

So instead of trying to convey the impossible, he sent out a simple message through his stance and expression to Matt.

"Sorry."

~Two hours earlier~

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, which was Gilen's notice that Matt had left for the ice rink. The season had just ended, which had been a great relief for Gilen, but Matt always went to practice at least once a week, even if he didn't have any upcoming games.

Gilen reached for the tv remote and turned up the volume to be able to hear it from the other room. He headed to his kitchen, opening up the refrigerator and peering in, trying to see what he might obtain from its cold shelves.

It was mostly empty and he made a mental note to send Matt grocery shopping. The only thing they really had was a half empty bottle of syrup, probably expired milk, a stick of butter and some random rotting vegetable at the bottom of a drawer.

Gilen was just closing the refrigerator door in disappointment when he happened to glance up at the door, particularly, the weekly planner Matt had used to keep track of practices but which was now just there to remind him of anything he might have to do during the week, or an event he wanted to remember.

If Gilen were one for sounds he would've gone very quiet very quickly. As he was not, he became very, very still. He read the date five times before properly internalizing the meaning.

July 1st

Matt's birthday.

 _Today_ was Matt's birthday.

Gilen screamed internally, manifesting itself in a small insignificant whimper.

It only took him a few seconds to run to his room, throw on a hoodie and trip down the stairs, grab his keys and head right out the door, locking the house behind him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

The little people in his head chanted in their heads.

What? They were mute too.

He hated going out, especially alone and especially without earlier notice, but this was probably the biggest emergency he had ever been in throughout the course of his whole life.

He quickly began structuring a plan, because he needed one if he wanted to stay sane.

Matt was usually gone from anywhere between one and two hours, the nearest grocery store was five minutes away and it would probably take him ten minutes to find what he needed so worst-case scenario, he would have about fortiesh minutes to do… what exactly? What was he supposed to prepare?

As Gilen wracked his brain for something, anything that he could use to save himself from drowning in an endless sea of behind-dark-shades-glares from Matt, he suddenly remembered a throwaway comment the other had made the other day.

 _It's been a while since I've had a good pancake. All I had time to do during season was cheap instant mix, or we'd get to go to some waffle house. It's not the same though._

The little light bulb went off in Gilen's head.

He picked up the pace and finally got to the store, grabbing a basket and nearly knocking into a little girl, who apologized, and then stuck her tongue out at him when he didn't acknowledge her. He rolled his eyes. And people wondered why he didn't get out of the house more often.

As he began combing the aisles he realized a very important fact. He had no idea how to make a pancake from scratch.

He didn't have time to go through in his head what would be logically required, and it's not like he had a phone he could use to look it up. He huffed, suddenly more annoyed than ever at Matt's insistence on not giving him a phone.

Instead he passed through the aisles, throwing in whatever he saw that he maybe imagined might go into a pancake.

He got several odd looks from the people around him, which he was mostly used to, but it was different when somebody looked at you weird because you had purple eyes or nearly translucent skin, to when somebody looked at you weird because you're basically taking down every item on the shelf and looking panicked. Several employees tried to ask him what he was looking for but he did not have the time or patience currently to try and pantomime anything.

The cashier, luckily, didn't even bat an eye, scanning everything quickly, and bagging it in one go. Gilen made his way out of the store, arms packed with bags, and hightailed it all the way back to his house.

He got in, closed the door with his butt, and laid everything down on the counter.

Okay. Now. To make Pancakes.

He more or less sorted out the mess of things he'd bought, blushing bright red when he realized somewhere along the mix a box of tampons had found its way in.

He could totally do this. He'd done worse, he wasn't gonna let a silly stack of birthday pancakes get the best of him.

Taking a bowl from a cupboard he set it down on the table. So first… flour, duh. He thought. He ripped the package open and before he could give himself a moment to think, poured the whole thing. He stared at it with wide eyes, as if his hands had done that of their own accord.

Okay. Maybe he needed to focus a bit more.

Now, how was he supposed to turn this into batter. He surveyed the liquids he had brought and hesitantly grabbed the vegetable oil. This might work right. He poured some, trying to be more mindful than last time. He grabbed a spoon from the cabinet and tried to stir it, effectively covering his top half in flour. Alright then, he thought, wiping some of it off. He tried again, this time gentler. It was thick and even he could tell this was not what it was supposed to look like.

Eggs.

The word suddenly popped into his head and he brought the carton closer. He opened it and immediately wondered how many he should put. He decided to crack a couple in a separate bowl and decided from there. He did so, breaking open three eggs, staring at them for a few moments and then tossing all of them into the mixture, afterwards deciding to throw in two more. He stirred it again and as he did a fleeting thought went through his head.

Should he have separated the whites from the rest of the egg?

It suddenly appeared obvious to him as the mixture certainly had more color than he imagined it should. He shook it off and kept going. How much of a difference could it really make, it was all just an egg.

Finally, he reminded himself that pancakes were sweet and threw in what he thought was sugar, not even taking the time to glance at the label and realize it was actually salt.

 _I'll just try with this for a test and see what I have to do from there._

He grabbed a pan, he was pretty certain that was what he was supposed to use, it was called a _pan_ cake, and set it on the stove. Now… what temperature? He tentatively set it on low, debating in his head that it was better than burning it. He poured about a fourth of the entire bowl, just about overflowing the pan.

He made a face. Maybe that was not the best course of action.

Still, he let it stay there, as he turned back and looked at what was left of the batter. Some more flour maybe, he said opening the second sack of flour and adding some more. He shook his head, trying to get his neurons to work. Out of frustration that he couldn't come up with anything else, he grabbed the thing closest to him, baking soda, and threw it in. He facepalmed. Why would he do that?

Pulling out a new bowl he started again, this time pouring a lot less flour. He put the same amount of eggs, this time, just the whites and added a considerably less amount of vegetable oil. It was looking good, but it still needed something liquid.

He turned back, wondering what it could be and as he rounded the corner, he knocked over the bottle of vinegar and the next thing he knew, an explosion of bubbles had taken over the counter.

With wide eyes, he swatted whatever it was. He quickly grabbed the bowl and threw it in the sink, trying to shake off what had spilled onto his hands.

Well, that got screwed, he thought pulling out yet another bowl. He took a deep breath and entered laser focus mode.

He put some flour and only a little bit of oil this time, added the eggs and stirred it. It still didn't feel quite right. As he mulled it over in his head the smell of burnt hit his nose.

Oh god.

He could totally do this. He'd done worse, he wasn't gonna let a silly stack of birthday pancakes get the best of him.

Taking a bowl from a cupboard he set it down on the table. So first… flour, duh. He thought. He ripped the package open and before he could give himself a moment to think, poured the whole thing. He stared at it with wide eyes, as if his hands had done that of their own accord.

Okay. Maybe he needed to focus a bit more.

Now, how was he supposed to turn this into batter. He surveyed the liquids he had brought and hesitantly grabbed the vegetable oil. This might work right. He poured some, trying to be more mindful than last time. He grabbed a spoon from the cabinet and tried to stir it, effectively covering his top half in flour. Alright then, he thought, wiping some of it off. He tried again, this time gentler. It was thick and even he could tell this was not what it was supposed to look like.

Eggs.

The word suddenly popped into his head and he brought the carton closer. He opened it and immediately wondered how many he should put. He decided to crack a couple in a separate bowl and decided from there. He did so, breaking open three eggs, staring at them for a few moments and then tossing all of them into the mixture, afterwards deciding to throw in two more. He stirred it again and as he did a fleeting thought went through his head.

Should he have separated the whites from the rest of the egg?

It suddenly appeared obvious to him as the mixture certainly had more color than he imagined it should. He shook it off and kept going. How much of a difference could it really make, it was all just an egg.

Finally, he reminded himself that pancakes were sweet and threw in what he thought was sugar, not even taking the time to glance at the label and realize it was actually salt.

 _I'll just try with this for a test and see what I have to do from there._

He grabbed a pan, he was pretty certain that was what he was supposed to use, it was called a _pan_ cake, and set it on the stove. Now… what temperature? He tentatively set it on low, debating in his head that it was better than burning it. He poured about a fourth of the entire bowl, just about overflowing the pan.

He made a face. Maybe that was not the best course of action.

Still, he let it stay there, as he turned back and looked at what was left of the batter. Some more flour maybe, he said opening the second sack of flour and adding some more. He shook his head, trying to get his neurons to work. Out of frustration that he couldn't come up with anything else, he grabbed the thing closest to him, baking soda, and threw it in. He facepalmed. Why would he do that?

Pulling out a new bowl he started again, this time pouring a lot less flour. He put the same amount of eggs, this time, just the whites and added a considerably less amount of vegetable oil. It was looking good, but it still needed something liquid.

He turned back, wondering what it could be and as he rounded the corner, he knocked over the bottle of vinegar and the next thing he knew, an explosion of bubbles had taken over the counter.

With wide eyes, he swatted whatever it was. He quickly grabbed the bowl and threw it in the sink, trying to shake off what had spilled onto his hands.

Well, that got screwed, he thought pulling out yet another bowl. He took a deep breath and entered laser focus mode.

He put some flour and only a little bit of oil this time, added the eggs and stirred it. It still didn't feel quite right. As he mulled it over in his head the smell of burnt hit his nose.

Oh god.

He grabbed the pan, effectively burning his hand because he had let the handle rest towards the inside of the stove and not the corners. As he threw it in the sink next to the baking soda vinegar disaster, he said his first word in almost five years.

"Fuck!"

Which only caused more pain as he almost felt that his vocal chords were being ripped to shreds.

He just about fell to the ground in agony. He curled up on the floor, breathing heavily and overridden by panic. He thought he might die just now, and only had enough time to turn his head as he hurled whatever meager dinner he had had yesterday.

It was a long while before he managed to get up. He was shuddering like a leaf and he wasn't sure he could stay up much longer. Leaning heavily on the counter, he tried to steady his breathing.

No one heard him. It was alright. No one heard him. It was okay.

It still wasn't enough to reassure him and he stumbled a bit in the shock that he had actually spoken after so long; his throat still felt like it was on fire.

He pulled the refrigerator wide open, scanned the shelves and felt the little lightbulb go off in his head as he pulled out the milk carton. He threw some in the mix, stirred it together and almost cheered when it looked half decent.

He searched around for another pan, continually knocking things over but he eventually managed to find and smack down a pan on the stove, not even noticing that he had set it on high, and poured the batter he had made. Looking back at the mess on the counter he was struck with anger that making a stupid fucking pancake had made speak, something he had sworn off for a good reason. In his rage, he swept everything off the counter and set it clattering to the floor with a satisfying crescendo of destruction.

He finally turned to the cooking pancake. He grabbed a spatula and tried to flip it, only to find that it was stuck to the bottom. He snorted like a bull, grabbed the pan and threw it down on the floor. He kicked it across the room.

As he panted heavily, he heard a small clinking sound behind him. As he whipped his head back, he saw a slack jawed Matt staring over the top of his glasses at what appeared to be the result of World War Food in his kitchen. His hand had frozen at his side where he was putting down his keys. Everything was still for a couple of seconds.

Then, just like that, Matt scooped up his keys, turned right back around and called out to Gilen: "Change your shirt, I'll be waiting in the car."

Gilen didn't really feel he was in a position to question Matt considering the state of their kitchen so he hurried off to his room to throw the dirtied clothes in the hamper and change. He slid into the passenger's seat and closed the door behind him. Matt, who hadn't even glanced at him, started up the car.

The car ride was long, and even though Gilen was used to silence, actually preferring it noise all of the time, right now it felt like it was pressing on him from all sides, quiet accusations of being a bad boyfriend and how he didn't deserve having love.

The torture only stopped when, as they approached a red light, Matt turned his head in Gilen's direction.

Gilen tentatively raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, their almost established code for when Gilen was confused.

Matt didn't say anything, just turned back to the road, taking a right turn and pulling into a Denny's parking lot.

He got out, Gilen following, still giving Matt a questioning look even as they entered the building and Matt called for a table for two and they sat down and Matt began eyeing the menu.

Gilen finally chose to use his last resort method for communicating with Matt. He firmly tapped on his shoulder, and painfully mouthed the words "What the fuck?"

Matt looked at him oddly.

"Did you expect me to eat that thing in the sink?"

Gilen slowly shook his head no.

"Precisely. Now," He gestured a waitress over. "What do you want?"

Gilen picked out his dish which Matt relayed to the waitress. Before she left he asked her if he could borrow her notepad for a quick sec. She looked at him weirdly but gave in and handed it over.

Matt pulled a pen from his pocket and slid both objects over to Gilen.

"So… what the fuck happened today?" He asked, as their food arrived.

For the rest of the afternoon, they ate their weight in breakfast foods as Gilen wrote down the story of his pancake endeavor. Matt only became more and more amused.

"Why would you mix baking soda and vinegar?" He asked with a trace of breathless laughter. Gilen hadn't seen him so relaxed in so long that he didn't even mind writing, which he usually abhorred.

 _It was an accident._

Matt rolled his eyes. "Why did you even have baking soda in the first place? Shouldn't you have bought baking powder?"

Gilen paused.

 _It's not the same thing…?_

Matt actually laughed freely now as he shook his head.

Gilen hesitated.

 _I burned myself._

He wrote down slowly. Matt nodded, pointing at the awkward way he was holding his fork. "I imagined."

Gilen was even more hesitant to write the next part.

 _I spoke._

Matt stared at the words for several seconds as if his brain refused to process them. He looked up at Gilen sort of shocked.

"Whatdya say?" He asked in a low voice.

Gilen blushed.

 _Fuck._

Matt barked laughter again, loosening the tension. "That's my boy." He said as he leaned over the table and messed up Gilen's hair.


	6. Bernard Rocks the Bake Sale

Warning: My depiction of 2p Sweden is… out there. I've never seen anyone portray him the way I do, and honestly, I don't know why I think of him like this. Still, you have been warned that this is an different interpretation and you should go into this with an open mind.

The tempo of his tapping fingers increased in speed as Bernard's anxiety rose. His eyes flitted quickly and erratically from the clock on the wall to the timer on the oven. It was all he could do to keep himself from pulling open the oven and checking on the cookies before they were done.

This needed to be perfect, it was his chance to join the mom squad. He couldn't screw it up, even if his insides were eating him alive with what ifs.

He was so high strung that when the ding finally reached his ears he almost tripped as he ripped open the oven and pulled out the tray of meticulously made cookies. He inspected each one, with utmost care, his hopes rising slowly as it seemed all of them had passed the test.

He almost smiled but then he came upon the last cookie, burnt at the edges. He glared at it with such hatred it would've shriveled up and turned to ashes had he had laser vision.

He did not have laser vision. Instead, with a look of utter disgust, he swept the whole tray into the garbage can. Slamming the tray down on his counter again, he began anew, setting out the ingredients for the batter to be made once more.

Next to him, the trash can was almost overflowing with failed cookie attempts and only failed cookie attempts.

The clock on the wall read 2:54.

* * *

Thurston walked into his kitchen to find that his prayers had not been answered and his so dubbed "spouse" was still alive and well. Said "spouse" was crouched down in front of the counter looking a tray of brownies over. He had enormous bags under his eyes.

Bernard hadn't even noticed Thurston walk in, too busy making sure that each brownie was impeccable in every imaginable way, being surprised when he found that they meet his standards. With a wide grin, he began packing them away in a huge container, already holding about three other batches, that sat next to four other identical containers, filled to the brim with stacked cookies, doughnuts, crepes and cupcakes in neat rows.

Thurston cleared his throat, causing Bernard to whip his head back, almost dropping the brownie he had been placing, but in the end catching it and setting it down. He straightened up, wiped his hands on the pink apron he was wearing and smiled warmly. "Good morning, dear. Sorry breakfast isn't made, I hadn't realized you were already up." It was only then, when Bernard glanced at the clock for the first time in hours, that he realized it was seven thirty in the morning. "Oh gosh! I apologize, time escaped me. I'll have your breakfast done in a second, honey."

Thurston sighed in his annoyance as he threw himself down on a barstool, watching as Bernard pulled open the refrigerator and searched for the eggs. He moved quickly, with percision, each action having been planned out long before execution. It was only seconds before the eggs were sizzling on the pan and Bernard had moved on to making bacon. Thurston almost slammed his head onto the table.

"I'm calling the cops if you don't get the fuck out of my house already."

Bernard gave a dry laugh. "As if, sweetheart. You wouldn't contact the police if your life depended on it. Face it, darling, you and I are going to be a happy married couple for as long as we live, and there ain't jackshit you can do about it. Scrambled or fried, dear?"

"Scrambled." Thurston grit out.

It was unfortunately true. He couldn't call the cops, couldn't have them knowing his voice, where he lived, his face, his name. He needed to stay under the radar. That plan had been fine and dandy, right up until this horrible man came into his life, to screw it over.

Breakfast was served not long after, the same thing it always was. A heaping pile of eggs, bacon, sausages, pancakes, a side of fruits and a mountain of hash browns. Thurston stabbed his fork into the sausage, imagining it was Bernard's head, and tried to calm his rage at being forced to play along with this man's shenanigans. He ate the food as Bernard finished packing all the baked goods. Thurston gave them a curious but disinterested look. "So what the fuck is that for?"

Bernard looked at him sharply. "Please tell me you didn't forget. Paul's school is having a bake sale and we agreed to help." Thurston raised his eyebrow as he corrected Bernard. " _You_ agreed to help."

Bernard pouted, but then grinned. "Wouldn't it be quite a shame if the authorities received an anonymous tip that someone saw you hitting your spouse?" Thurston glared as he gritted his teeth tightly. "You stupid little bitch, you wouldn't dare."

"Well, that's no way to speak to your wife, is it?"

Thurston almost threw the table across the room. "You are a fucking man, own up and deal with it!" Bernard's eyes lit ablaze. "You will refer to me as a woman, so help me, I'll drag you to the police station myself with all the video evidence I need to put you behind bars for the rest of your life!"

Thurston bolted up from his chair and roughly grabbed Bernard's wrist, even as the man cried out that it was hurting him. He looked him deep in the eyes. "You. Are. A. Man. And you're most definitely not my wife. Suck it the fuck up if you don't want me to slap your face off." Bernard almost had tears in his eyes as he bit his tongue to keep himself from digging a deeper hole than he was already in but Thurston still wouldn't let go, and Bernard feared that he was about to get seriously hurt when the voice spoke behind them.

"The fuck's going on?"

Bernard quickly took hold of Thurston's momentary distraction and wrenched his hand away, rubbing his sore wrist. "Nothing, sweetheart. And stop speaking like your father, you're not old enough for that kind of language."

The child snorted. "Like hell he's my dad. Only reason why I'm here is that it's better than an orphanage. Not by much, though." Bernard shushed Paul and told him to mind his manners. Paul flipped him off, causing an outrage with Bernard, Thurston taking his opportunity to escape. As Bernard scolded Paul, who wasn't listening in the slightest, he instructed the boy to carry the box of cookies to the car. Bernard loaded up the trunk with the sweets and then slid into the driver's seat as Paul climbed into the passengers. He was short for his age, technically not even tall enough to ride upfront but Bernard let him because he had threatened to leave the house if not.

Bernard pulled out of their drive way and began the trip to Paul's school, while Paul moodily stared out the window. A small voice inside Bernard's head was making him uncomfortable, persisting that he speak to his son. Finally, he listened to it.

"Paul," Bernard called with caution. Paul made a small humming noise in acknowledgement. "You love me, right?" Paul shook his head firmly. "Nope." He made a popping sound as he crossed his arms and stared dead ahead. Bernard's lip trembled as he felt his heart fall. He swallowed heavily. "You know that really hurts my feelings. Why would you say such a thing? I've done everything in my power to provide everything you need and want, I didn't expect you to love me as soon as you came home, but I've shown you nothing but care and you're just outright mean to me."

Paul was silent for a second, before glaring at Bernard out of the corner of his eye. "It's not like you're my mother." He said spitefully.

Bernard wasn't sure how he kept himself from crying.

* * *

Bernard struggled to carry all five boxes stacked on top of each other, because Paul had refused to help, attempting to walk in a straight line while not being able to see in front of himself.

He knew that a couple of moms were staring at him from a few feet away, and he felt a pang of anger at the thought that none of them made any move to try and help him. Anger now fueling his system, he was determined to show that he could be just as good as any of them.

He made it to the office to ask where the bake sale was gonna be set up, but he spotted the assembled tables and made his way over. The students were still all in class and it was only volunteer moms flitting about, setting things up. Bernard walked up to them, readying up his brightest smile. He didn't even get a chance to use it.

As one, all the mothers turned away, and pretended to be in deep conversation amongst themselves, clearly sending out the message: "Do not talk to us" in bold bright red letters. Bernard took a calming breath. He deliberately approached the closest woman to him and gently tapped on her shoulder. She didn't even hide the fact that she flinched.

"What?" She barked. Bernard summoned his inner patience, the one he only needed to use with Thurston and other judging assholes. "I'm one of the bake sales volunteers." He said calmly, motining to the boxes. "Where should I put these?"

The woman sneered. "We don't need _your_ help." Bernard's face hardened. "Look here, I didn't spend the last twelve hours of my life stuck in my kitchen to be told you don't need my help. I spoke directly with faculty members and I was told that they were missing a lot of food and I could bring as many as possible, and that they'd appreciate it if I could help with sales because they needed a couple more volunteers. So you're gonna take my freaking brownies and I'm gonna sell some ice cream to kids." They stared each other down fiercely, and finally, with a pointed look, the mother took Bernard's boxes and set them five feet away from the rest of the piled offerings.

She came back and shoved a sign into Bernard' chest. "You can hold this." Bernard almost snapped and smacked her over the head with it. Instead, with a barely controlled temper, he clenched the carboard in his hands tightly, crumpling it.

* * *

The lunch bell rang and Bernard was still standing in a corner, holding up the bake sale sign, purposefully positioned in a place where no one would look before spotting the tables and making him feel as useful to the bake sale as his rejected brownies. It was clear that the mothers were overwhelmed, but they obviously thought themselves above asking Bernard for help. Bernard clutched the sign tighter.

Somewhere along the sea of fourth graders, a bright red and yellow beanie popped into existence, coming closer. It stopped at the stand, as if looking for something, and then kept going. Bernard lost track of it for one second and the next thing he knew Paul was next to him. Bernard put down the sign to give Paul a quick hug, even as the kid struggled to get out of the embrace.

Paul huffed for a couple of seconds, looking like he wasn't quite sure what to say before finally turning to Bernard. "Why aren't you over there?" Bernard snorted. "Because I'm the plague and horrible and anything associated with me shouldn't be near children." Paul nodded slowly. "That's why I didn't see your cookies." He mumbled, mostly to himself.

Bernard sighed, his broad shoulders caving in, giving up on his dream of being part of the group.

"You wanna buy some candy and blow this place?" It was an odd thing for Bernard, who usually took Paul's schooling with utmost seriousness, to offer. Paul looked at him with sympathy that he didn't usually employ in his everyday life. "Sure." He said simply. Bernard gave a relieved smile and let Paul help him up, making their way towards the crowded stand.

The mothers were frantic, as they were starting to run out of food and the toddlers just kept coming. The only unopened containers were Bernard's which they seemed reluctant to use, confusing Paul a bit.

But as Paul and Bernard approached, the mothers who were accompanying their children swiftly wrapped them up, carrying the smaller ones onto their shoulders, and pushing the bigger ones behind their skirts. Paul looked at them oddly, not quite understanding until he heard one of them whisper to their kid: "Stay away from that person, you hear me. I don't ever wanna see you around them." Paul reared his head. He watched the volunteer moms give Bernard dirty looks and caught a snippet of their conversation. "What does that freak think he's doing, trying to get close to our children? It's sick."

Bernard clearly heard it too because he shrunk into his shoulders in embarrassment and shame as he stopped. "Hey, I heard that. What is your problem?" He asked, but his voice was weak and harmless, clearly hurt. Finally, the moms made their move, the leader coming forward and speaking loudly enough for everyone around them to hear, even in the commotion.

"You need to get away from our children, you indecent hellspawn. You should be locked inside your dump of a house, not trying to spread whatever the fuck you are to innocent kids."

Bernard looked like he'd been slapped with a fish. He blubbered, sounding out raged but not being able to form words.

The mom backed away with a sick smile, only to almost walk into a kid slamming a chair down in front of her and climbing it to be eye level with her. "Hey, bitch, what makes you think you can talk to my mom like that?" Paul said, leaning forward to get in her face, even as Bernard made an odd squeaky noise, conjuring up in his imagination a picture where what was left of his lousy reputation was doused in gasoline and someone stood holding a lit match, ready to drop it. The woman was shocked.

"Even worse is that this kid doesn't have an option to escape this monster. You poor boy, having to live with this thing. It's not really your _mom,_ it's okay."

Paul looked flabbergasted but only for a second. After that he pulled back his fist and slammed it into her face. The woman reared back and fell onto the table, breaking it and ruining what was left of the cookies stacked on it.

"Paul!" Bernard yelled, rushing forward and grabbing him by the waist before he could jump down and continue to assault the woman. Paul struggled and kicked shouting curses. "My mom's a better woman than all you bitches combined. You're all whores and you can go eat a dick!" Bernard slapped his hand over Paul's mouth and began dragging him away, not wanting to stick around until the woman got up and came after them.

When Bernard had finally wrestled Paul outside the building, the boy stopped struggling and Bernard felt safe putting him down on the floor and letting him walk himself to the car. Neither said anything for a long while as they rounded the school from the outside, heading to the parking lot.

Bernard was smiling to himself, glancing at Paul every once in a while, and hoping he didn't notice. "What are you looking at?" Paul asked, and Bernard realized he wasn't good at hiding his intentions. Bernard smiled. "What was that you said about not loving me?"

Paul blushed. "Hey, it's like Thurston always says, you can't let people insult your women, makes you seem weak."

Bernard froze. "Your dad called me a woman?"

Paul shrugged. "Sure. He does it all the time. Unless he's mad at you then he calls you a bitch." Bernard's heart almost melted. "I've never been happier to hear you curse."

They finally made it to the car, and Bernard started it up, driving away from the school. Paul snickered in his seat, causing Bernard to glance at him. "What's so funny?" He asked. Paul grinned devilishly. "Just remembered something Thurston said."

"And what was that?"

"That your hiding a pretty big cock under that skirt of yours."

Bernard raised an eyebrow. "First of all, you need to stop calling him Thurston. He's your father. Second of all, he and I are going to have a little chat tonight, and we'll see if _he_ still has a cock after that."

Paul almost fell over in his seat cackling.

"Sure thing, mom."


	7. Tale of Two Brother's and a Beer

_A/N: Two important little things to mention before today's chapter. One, this is the beginning of a side mini series of sorts that will be on here to bring some sliver of backstory sometimes and other times it's just when I run out of ideas. Second, I'm going to be taking a bit of a break, around a month, to work on a couple other projects. I would like to begin to post some of the other things I've been working on, but I don't know what people would like best, so I have set up a poll with a couple of options on my page, go check that out if you would like to see more from me, please. It's going to be open for the next two weeks. Without further adieu, enjoy this week's chapter._

* * *

There were once two brothers, who really sucked at cooking. Whether it was pasta or pancakes, either burned down their houses.

The story of such misfortunes in the kitchen goes back, much further than that, to a time when both brothers lived under the same roof.

It was their own little dumpster, an unsteady pile of wood planks and a zinc roof thrown together. They lived just with their father, for their mother died after her second child, and by the time the youngest knew of speech, the eldest had long since lost his voice.

Their father was a drunk and useless man, who's inexistent money he continuously spent at the bar. The eldest, though he knew no love for his brother, had no choice but to care for him.

There were once two brothers who went to sleep hungry, despite the eldest best efforts of finding food that day. The youngest curled up under a ratty and fraying blanket, while the eldest stubbornly continued his search.

* * *

The night was almost deathly still.

At his little corner, Lutz tried to curl into himself even more than he already was. Sleep was stubbornly eluding him, even though he was exhausted and could barely keep his eyes open. But rest seemed impossible with this insufferable cold and, more notably, the annoying sound of cans clanging against each other from the other side of the room.

With a huff, Lutz stood up, gathering the threadbare blanket that had been wrapped around his shoulders and pulling it around himself as he got up and headed towards the source of the sound. Gilen was hunched over a bottom cabinet, moving around some of the things inside. Lutz frowned.

"Hey."

He didn't respond, but Lutz wasn't sure if it was because he hadn't heard or because he didn't want to acknowledge being spoken to.

Lutz narrowed his eyes, feeling annoyed.

"Hey!" He said louder, reaching forward and placing a hand on Gilen's shoulder.

Gilen turned around sluggishly, which seemed odd to Lutz. But that had nothing against the shock Lutz got when Gilen's face finally came into the light, with a fool's grin plastered on his face and dopey eyes that blinked slowly.

Considering that Gilen's facial expressions only ranged from dead serious to dead-er serious it was logical that Lutz respond by slapping his brother across the face and taking five steps back to cower, thinking that something must've taken him over. Gilen was so unbalanced he fell back against the cabinet and hit his head, almost immediately causing a nasty bump. Lutz stared with wide eyes as Gilen wobbled to his feet. He had no idea what was wrong with his brother.

Gilen leaned heavily on Lutz, even when said boy was about a foot shorter. He raised his hand from his side and pushed something into Lutz's chest. Lutz stared down incredulously at a half empty glass bottle of something he did not recognize, but which smelled strong and unpleasant and reminded him of his father.

Lutz glanced between this alien version of his brother and the bottle and soon concluded that he was dreaming. It was then that the dream turned into a nightmare.

"Come on, Luti, have some." It was such an earthshattering occurrence that for a second Lutz whipped his head around to try to find who had broken into their house and only after imitating an owl for several seconds and finding nobody else was Lutz's brain forced to accept the reality that it had been his brother who had spoken. Lutz stared at him in horror.

"Why're you looking at me like that?" Gilen hiccupped as he swung this way and that. "Here, 's good." His voice was raspy and his words were slurred. It was the first time Lutz had ever heard it. For the longest time, he could've sworn that Gilen didn't know how to speak.

"B-b- bruder." Lutz stuttered, dropping him. Gilen tumbled to the floor in a mess of limbs, spilling some of the bottles contents.

Gilen shook his head violently and looked around, seemingly disoriented. He threw back his head and gulped what was left of the bottle, pouring most of it onto himself.

He then rolled over and reached into the cabinet again. Finding another bottle, he tried once more to offer it Lutz.

" 's good. Makes you feel funny." His voice cracked and he laughed, falling into a fit of giggles that made Lutz want to run and hide under his blanket.

Gilen continued to urge a confused and scared Lutz to drink, shoving the bottle under his nose.

Eventually Lutz threw the bottle to the side and tried to drag Gilen to their corner of the house, to make him sleep off whatever demon had possessed him. Gilen struggled, kicking around and flailing his arms, trying to grab the bottle again.

He managed to get his hands on it and put it to his mouth, chewing on the cap and trying to get it off, failing spectacularly. He looked back at Lutz.

Finally, Lutz grabbed the bottle, looked it over, opened it and handed it to Gilen, thinking it might make him stop talking and scaring the crap out of Lutz. Gilen happily grabbed the bottle and swallowed about a third in a single gulp, before insisting once more that Lutz try it.

Lutz held the bottle like it could explode and gingerly took a sip. It tasted awful and made him cough a few times, but as he was about to refuse it, Gilen slammed the bottom of the bottle sending it upward and forcing Lutz to swallow what was left in it. After almost choking for several seconds and shaking off the initial shock Lutz gave Gilen a terrified look.

"What's wrong with you?" Gilen laughed as he tried to stumble away. "I'm drunk, Lutti! You should try it, makes you forget the bad shit."

The words made Lutz mind slow down. He glanced at the bottle in his hand.

 _Makes you forget the bad shit, eh?_

He thought as his stomach growled again, reminding him he hadn't eaten in days, and his mind became conscious about the developing scar on the side of his face from nearly getting the shit beat out of him a week ago, before looking at his brother, singing an off-tune version of a song unknown to him in slurred German, without a care in the world.

He reached into the cabinet and pulled out two more bottles, following his brother, who had just marched out the door.


	8. Of Chocolates And Schemes

A/N: My supposedly short break extended longer than I planned, but I have no excuses to give, just an explanation. Hurricane Maria came and destroyed everything in her wake, but I have nothing to complain about because I am one of the few lucky people with running water, electricity and no mayor damages to my house. That said I've had the oportuity to upload for several weeks already and didn't so that's on me, not on the hurricane. I hope you enjoy this extremely short chapter that is only here because this site does not allow for uploads to just be author's notes and I'm the only scardey cat who will follow all the rules.

Flavio stared longingly at the chocolate, just an arm's reach away. He looked up at his brother, sitting next to it. "Luci, please." He begged, putting on his puppy dog eyes. Luciano didn't even look his way. "Stop fucking calling me Luci. And no." Flavio whined. "But, come on, I'm your brother."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"Pretty please with a poisoned dagger on top?"

"No, and shut the hell up."

Flavio huffed as he let his body fall back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. "Tell me again why it is so important that Lutz get this particular piece of chocolate. We can just go out and get him another stinkin' jar."

Luciano didn't dignify the question with a response and instead moved the chocolate closer to him.

Flavio was ready to go on an all-out tantrum, when the door opened. Lutz came in, looking slightly confused and disoriented.

"You called me over?" He said, looking around. Luciano nodded and handed him the jar. Lutz stared at it for a moment.

"Why are you giving me Nutella?" He asked. Luciano frowned. "Because I am a nice friend. Now get out of my house, you fucking bastard."

Luciano's words were understandably not understandable, and it took Lutz a moment to process them.

"Okay." He said and left, Nutella in hand.

Flavio turned to Luciano for an explanation, but he noticed the giant evil smile that was plastered all over his face. Flavio paused, took the sight in, and then shook his head walking away.

"I don't even wanna know what you put in the chocolate."


End file.
